{A journal of words, sounds, images and ideas}

Blogging, Beckett and a Seven-Year Old Boy

It was one year ago last week that I started blogging. But I quit before that anniversary came around.

Yes, I quit blogging in late November, because I could no longer do it. I loved doing it. I had met some extraordinary people–Romanians in London, Americans in Ecuador, an art colony in Italy. I enjoyed thinking about the books I read, the music I heard, the films I watched. And I enjoyed trying to get those thoughts “down on paper.”

Henry dressed as the “Holy Roman Emperor Saint Henry” for Halloween last October.

But then my life changed drastically and blogging found itself way down on my list of priorities.

I became responsible for a seven-year old boy.

Henry is a delightful young boy. He is creative, bright, and personable. And it is my job, to a degree, to nurture and protect him. I shower him with love and I make sure that he knows he is loved. I try to pay attention to what he does and what he says and what he feels.

We play silly word games. We read together: I to him on the sofa; he to me on the steps, (where the game is that I must go up or down a step every time he turns a page.) He is seven years old, but will still hold my hand when we walk places, at least for now. We often take “adventures” together, and these are usually simple jaunts across the city on public transportation. We take a trolley and then a subway and then a train and then we reverse ourselves, adding in a bus on the return trip. He points out train yards and sidings, trolley tracks and subway couplers. We stay and wave to the drivers after we get off and they drive away. (He does LOVE his transportation!)

Sure, there are time when I must get him to do things that he doesn’t want to: to try foods he does not like (that comprises everything that isn’t pizza) or to stop talking and listen when others are speaking or to slow down with his homework, with his handwriting. I try to teach him, and I try to do so with patience, with gentleness and with love.

For the most part, when I am not at work, I am with him, or I am asleep. And when I am at work, I am thinking about him and worrying about him.

Henry and I on the R5

Having a seven-year old in your 30s is one thing; having a seven-year old in your late 50s is something else altogether. I haven’t read a book in I can’t say how long. My film-going is greatly constricted. And my television viewing is completely limited to Phineas and Ferb (don’t ask!) and America’s Funniest Home Videos. And yet his enjoyment of both of these shows is genuine and sweet. He laughs with purity and with delight. And that, I wouldn’t trade for anything.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I went out last Thursday night with my wife and some friends to see a play: Endgame by Samuel Beckett. I had read it many times, but had never seen it performed, and so we made definite plans to get there.

Endgame is the second of the four major plays that Beckett wrote following World War II. (Waiting For Godot, Endgame, Krapps Last Tape and HappyDay.) Situated firmly in the Theater of the Absurd, Endgame presents Hamm, a blind, crippled man who sits in a make-shift wheel-chair in a single, disheveled room. He is tended to by Clov, who, conversely, is unable to sit. In the room are also two trash bins. In the one is Hamm’s legless father, Nagg, and in the other, his legless mother, Nell. Hamm pontificates on the bleakness of life, on the attraction of story-telling, on the uncertainty of a future. It is one of my favorite plays.

In one piece of dialogue that I particularly love, Hamm asks Clov to open the trash bin to see what his father is doing:

I love this. How simple, how poignant, how piercing. It perfectly captures Beckett’s–and to a large degree, my own–world view. For better or worse, my personal philosophy has long been greatly informed by Beckett’s. Or else, I had already formed it and because of that I found Beckett. But, for one reason or another, I am drawn to his bleakness and emptiness–and to the black humor that attends it.

As I said, I have long enjoyed and embraced Beckett’s dire existentialism. But now, I can no longer afford it, can no longer afford to wallow in such bleakness, to delight in such barren absurdity. I have to try to tamp it down. For I have Henry now to take care of, and that is very much the purpose of my life.

John,
As sat next to you watching Endgame the other night, I suppose I enjoyed the company much more than the play. You see, my reaction to the danger, destruction, and death of war was perhaps a bit different from Beckett’s. Having survived – with incredible luck – thirteen months in Vietnam with a Marine grunt company in 1968 and 1969, my approach to life has ever since been: Every day above ground is a good day! That does not mean I never have dark days; it just means that I know things could be much worse.
By the way, I spent nine years – kindergarten through eighth grade – attending St. Henry School in Philadelphia. Give “St. Henry” a kiss for me. – Ken

PS: I know that you are very busy now and you don’t have much time, but don’t give up on blogging completely. You said yourself how much you enjoyed it. It is so because deep inside you are a writer and a thinker. We enjoy reading your posts as well. You can find a balance between life and writing , actually we all do this.
I hope to read your posts again soon.
Many thanks John, take good care of you and the little one. 🙂
Ela

Welcome back dear John!!!!!!!!!!! Yay!!!!! I am soooo happy to hear from you and read your lovely post my friend!!!!!
I have worked a lot with children as well, I know how great that can be.
If you’ll get a chance to get on my blog you will find that I added details about my work and myself as well.
I missed your presence and wisdom here.
🙂 🙂 🙂
Many hugs and positive thoughts
Ela